Chapter Twelve
Joe
I typed the title, House Shared , on the opening page, and then I added, Pilot Episode by Joe Wallace . I pressed enter until I had moved the cursor on to the next page. A blank page and the beginning of a new sitcom. Only this wasn’t just a sitcom, this was my life I was attempting to replicate on the page. It felt different to anything I had done before, and also quite duplicitous because I knew Freya wouldn’t appreciate me spilling the guts of our marriage on to the page for laughs. The thing was, though, I was desperate. This had to be a success, or I would be returning to education and becoming a teacher or perhaps a lecturer because that was literally the only other job I could see myself doing. I could write a novel, but that had about as much chance of success as writing a sitcom and even less financial gain, from what I had heard. No, I was putting all my eggs in one basket, and this was the basket. I was forty-five, recently separated from my wife, my daughter was soon leaving home for a town at the other end of the country, and I only had one fucking basket! A thoroughly depressing thought, but I had to get my head down and hope this worked because the alternatives didn’t bear thinking about.
I wrote for a few hours before I stopped typing and read it back a few times. Was it too close to the knuckle? Was it basically just repeating the same conversations I had with Freya verbatim but with a few jokes added to the mix? Were the characters too similar to Freya, Dolly and myself? Would she end up suing me for libel? I didn’t know, but it was just a first draft, and it would change anyway. The thing was, I liked it. It had a good ebb and flow, and the characters were already so real in my mind. They always say ‘write what you know’, but surely this was taking the piss. This wasn’t creating something based on something that had happened years before, or stories I had patchworked together, this was literally happening as I was writing it. It felt a little more than risky.
I wrote a few more pages before I took a break and made myself a coffee. While I was waiting for the kettle to boil, I had a look on the fridge door and saw the housework schedule Freya had made at work, printed off, laminated and then stuck to the fridge with a magnet. I needed to clean the floors, clean the downstairs loo and the main bathroom. I was a forty-five-year-old comedy writer, and yet I felt like a child being told what to do for pocket money. The irony was, I had done all those things for years without evening thinking about it, but now it was written down on a schedule, something about it just annoyed me. Why couldn’t she trust that I would do the jobs that I had already been doing for years without having to check up on me? Why did we need a laminated schedule stuck to the fridge? The kettle boiled and I made myself a coffee, before I headed back upstairs to my office to work. I would do my housework later.
After another couple of hours of writing, I felt the need to get out and see people. Since the separation, I had been largely wallowing, and apart from my visit to see Karen, which was not exactly an exercise in levity, I hadn’t done much else. I texted Stuart and Barney to see if they fancied a drink, which fortunately both of them did, and we arranged to meet at a pub in town later that night. Stuart would usually come for a drink if he wasn’t working or ferrying his boys around Sussex for cricket matches, which he often was. Barney was my token single friend, and generally up for a pint. I met Barney in London years before, as he worked in media, too, and he had moved to Brighton a few years ago to ‘escape the rat race’, he claimed, but I think also because he had dated every woman in London and needed a new pool to tempt into a relationship with him. I didn’t know what it was about Barney, but he could never seem to hang on to a woman for long. He dated but none of them stuck. He was a bit like Blu-Tack – a safe bet at the beginning, but you knew that eventually things would become unstuck.
We were meeting at the Mash Tun pub in The Lanes because it was a nice evening and we could sit outside and watch the world go by. It was always a busy area of Brighton, and the pub was packed as I walked up and saw Stuart and Barney already outside with a couple of pints.
‘Hello, chaps,’ I said, walking across.
‘Ah, there he is!’ said Barney with his usual enthusiasm.
‘Hello, mate,’ said Stuart.
I gave them both a quick handshake before I ducked inside, got myself a pint and then returned and joined my friends. Stuart was tall, burly and good-looking in a sort of dashing Emily Bronte way. He was originally from Yorkshire, so had a certain directness about him, a natural simplicity in the way he was and looked that I had always envied. He had played cricket to a high level, but now ran an English language school in Brighton, was married to Lucy and they had two boys. Barney was almost the exact opposite of Stuart. Whereas Stuart was tall and still in decent shape because he was a runner, Barney was shorter, squatter and did very little exercise as far as I knew. He had once mentioned a Zumba class, but that didn’t bear thinking about. Barney dressed smarter and was still a part of the London media scene, while Stuart was dressed in comfortable dad clothes. Two very dissimilar people but equally good mates.
‘How’s it going?’ said Stuart, an expression on his face and a tone in his voice that suggested he already knew that Freya and I were separated.
‘You know, don’t you?’ I asked.
‘Lucy told me everything.’
‘What’s this?’ said Barney. ‘Know what, exactly?’
‘Freya and I have decided to separate,’ I said, and hearing the words out loud still sounded strange and unfamiliar, like the time I tried learning Spanish on Duolingo.
‘Oh, mate, that’s monumental,’ said Barney. ‘Should I get shots? I’ll get shots.’
‘I don’t think we need shots, mate. It is sad, but I don’t think shots are the answer.’
‘Sorry I didn’t text or call. I thought I’d wait for you to mention it first,’ said Stuart.
‘No worries. Yeah, it’s strange, surreal, and honestly, I still can’t quite believe it.’
‘But you’ve been having problems for a while, haven’t you?’ said Barney. ‘I remember six months ago or more you mentioned something about going through a bit of a dry patch.’
‘Well, that dry patch became a fucking desert, and now we’re both just really thirsty. Unfortunately not for each other.’
‘Lucy said you were still living together,’ said Stuart, before he took a long pull of his pint.
‘We’re sharing the house until Dolly leaves for university because we didn’t want to unsettle her while she’s doing her A levels, and honestly, with the price of rent in Brighton, the idea of forking out for a flat didn’t make a lot of financial sense.’
‘That doesn’t sound like a giant bag of fun,’ said Barney.
‘It isn’t ideal, obviously, but we discussed it, and it’s only six months. Then once Dolly is gone, we can sell the house, and, you know, start our new lives.’
I said ‘new lives’ as if I had some sort of idea of what that might look like, but the truth was I had literally no idea. Although, I’m sure before Dad met Juliette, the idea of living in France had never once crossed his mind. In fact, I knew it hadn’t because he had never been there, thought baguettes were impractical for making sandwiches and, growing up, I remember him making several disparaging comments about the Channel Tunnel.
‘What if you want to bring a woman home?’ said Barney. ‘What is it, student-house rules? A sock on the bedroom door and music to drown out the moaning?’
‘Hardly, and I think the chances of me bringing a woman home are probably slimmer than you,’ I said to Barney. Man banter, it always kept things from getting too real. We were good friends, but discussing anything too personal, too deep, was strictly off limits, and we all knew it. Keep it light and surface-level only. It was like the opposite of therapy, but equally needed to keep me sane.
‘Actually, that’s where you’re wrong!’ said Barney suddenly and with a great deal of excitement. ‘I joined a new dating app, and I’ve been going great guns!’
‘You’re actually getting women back to your place?’ said Stuart, slightly disbelievingly.
‘I mean, define “back to your place”?’ replied Barney.
‘I think it’s quite clear,’ I said. ‘You’re getting women back to your flat for sex?’
‘Oh, Joe, you’re so base,’ said Barney. ‘The ladies I wine and dine aren’t into me just for the physical. We’re talking, debating, delicately navigating the early flushes of romance. It’s a dance, a whirlwind of the unknown, the familiar and yet the new. It’s complicated and yet simple. It’s—’
‘You’re not getting any, are you?’ said Stuart.
‘No, not yet, but you know, one day,’ said Barney, and we all laughed. ‘It’s all about PMA, gentlemen.’
‘PMA?’ I asked.
‘Positive mental attitude!’ said Barney as Stuart finished his pint and went to get another one, while Barney and I slowly finished ours.
It felt good getting outside and away from the house for a night. I needed the company of my friends to remind me that there was a life outside of my own. Stuart returned, and the conversation moved on from me and my marital issues, and Stuart told us about his boys and how well they were doing at cricket. The eldest, George, had been selected for his county, and Henry had just been made captain of the school team. Stuart was so proud of them, and then he spoke about Lucy’s cold water swimming club.
‘Lucy said that Freya had gone along to Cold Water Club.’
‘Oh, right, she didn’t mention it.’
‘Said she loved it, and was going back again,’ replied Stuart. ‘I went once. Never again. It was so cold I didn’t see my testicles for a week! Shocked into submission.’
‘Sounds awful,’ I said, wondering why Freya hadn’t mentioned it, and then it was clear. She was moving on. She had her own life now, separate from mine, and it was something I had to get used to. The tangled web of our lives and friendship groups unfortunately overlapped, so there was no getting away from her completely, unless perhaps I moved out of Brighton altogether. Although with my income, the only place I would be moving anytime soon was a shit one-bed flat in one of the less trendy parts of Brighton.
We were standing outside the pub, three hours and five pints later, and ready to head off home. We were each going in different directions.
‘I just hope you get yourself ready for the divorce,’ said Barney.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Things can get ugly. An old buddy of mine in London just went through it. Absolute fucking nightmare. She wanted the house, there were custody issues with the kids, and it all got very ugly with solicitors on both sides, and they had to go to mediation, which sounded like bloody torture. Poor bugger almost had a complete breakdown, lost most of his money, and had to move to fucking Slough!’
‘I think we’ll be okay. Things aren’t bad with Freya. It’s amicable.’
‘Yes, now,’ said Barney. ‘But wait until it’s about deciding who gets what, how much money you each get, and how you disentangle your whole life. Plus, she’s already working with solicitors. You don’t think she’s already thinking about it? Plotting who will get what?’
‘Freya isn’t like that,’ I said, but even as I said it, I knew I didn’t sound utterly convincing.
‘I’m just saying, mate, get ready for it, that’s all,’ said Barney. ‘Because you never know.’
‘Okay, mate, I think that’s enough scaremongering for one day,’ said Stuart, jumping in. ‘See you both soon? I have a busy few weeks with work and family stuff, but maybe after that?’
‘Definitely,’ I replied, but already I was thinking about what Barney had said. Was he right? Was I being naive? Should I already be thinking about the divorce and solicitors? Was Freya already thinking about it? She worked for a firm of family and divorce solicitors, so surely it was already on her mind. She knew the law and what exactly she was entitled to, and I had no idea. What if my new sitcom was commissioned, did well, was sold to America, and then syndicated, and made millions? Would she want some of that money? Could I stop her? Would I even want to? Or perhaps worse, if it didn’t get commissioned and I had no income, I would need every penny of my share from the sale of the house, and what if she made that difficult? As I walked home, hundreds of questions were suddenly swirling in my mind, and I had to tell myself to stop it. Freya wasn’t like that. I wasn’t like that. We were still friends. Weren’t we? We were going to have an amicable divorce, and discuss everything like adults, and put Dolly first. It’s what Freya had always stressed. No, Barney was wrong, and everything was going to be just fine.
I walked up the stairs of the house towards my bedroom, definitely feeling a little tipsy. It was quiet downstairs, the lights were off, so I assumed everyone was upstairs, even though it wasn’t that late. I really wanted to talk to Freya. Barney had freaked me out talking about divorce, mediation, and that I needed to be careful. I had to know she wasn’t thinking like that. I walked up to her bedroom door, took a quick breath, knocked, and then opened the door.
‘Freya—’
‘Oh my fucking God! Get out!’ screamed Freya, who was standing in the middle of the room completely and utterly naked. For a second I didn’t know what to do, and so I just stood there and looked at her. I hadn’t seen Freya naked in a very long time. ‘Joe!’
‘Oh, shit! Fuck!’ I said, covering my eyes, but I had already seen too much. ‘Sorry, sorry—’
‘Out!’ demanded Freya, as I backed out of her room, and then Dolly was suddenly on the landing.
‘What’s going on?’ said Dolly. ‘I heard shouting.’
I turned to face Dolly, my face red with embarrassment.
‘I, umm, walked in on your mother, and she—’
‘Is fucking livid!’ said a very angry Freya, now in a dressing gown, her wet hair up in a towel. ‘You can’t just walk into my room like that, Joe. What’s wrong with you?’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s a bit pervy, Dad,’ said Dolly. ‘Just saying.’
I looked at Freya, who huffed in annoyance, gave me a look that I could only describe as ‘hostile’ and then walked back into her room and slammed the door shut. I turned to Dolly.
‘It was an accident, Dolly. I didn’t mean to—’
‘That’s what all the dirty pervs say,’ said Dolly, turning around and walking back into her bedroom, leaving me on the landing, speechless, and feeling like I had just made things between me and Freya so much worse.